


Post War

by tvsn



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Economics, F/M, Government, Immigration & Emigration, Letters, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/pseuds/tvsn
Summary: A deputy of Lt. Governor John Graves Simcoe discovers through census data and correlating taxation records the embodiment of oppositional fears as they concern a controversial emancipation decree currently facing litigation. Not given to politics or political manoeuvring, Simcoe opens a correspondence between himself and the only man he has ever known to have a similar conflict between jurisprudence and moral justification.Now a respected if not yet renowned man of science, Edmund Hewlett discovers that he still has reason to sympathise with the plight of an orphan on the other side of the Atlantic and that of his guardian, an army deserter with a fortune built on coin stolen from the crown.





	Post War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenofallshades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenofallshades/gifts).



> Moin! So it has been a long time since I have delved into the 18th century, but I have been excited for this side project for quite a while now, having discussed it on and off with the always wonderful greenofallshades ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenofallshades/pseuds/greenofallshades)| [Tumblr](https://greenofallshades.tumblr.com/)), to whom this work is dedicated. Depending, of course, on interest, I imagine this winding into something far longer than my typical seven-chapter combatants against bad-weather boredom and my ever-present angst over releasing the next update of [Hide and Seek.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6711946/chapters/15348808)  
> It is always something awful, isn’t it?
> 
> That said I have no real warning for this initial chapter of ‘Post War’, except – brace yourself for this one – Caroline Herschel. Before you light your torches and sharpen your pitchforks, this isn’t a shipping thing. No. I am still all about that socio-political, economic, and at times mathematical approach to examining immigration and race relations through the unlikely medium of fanfiction.  
> (And to cover all of my bases, the title is a pun.)  
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

Edmund Hewlett kept largely to himself. This would have been no particular concern of hers if he could manage his business of mental isolation inconspicuously and in private, thereby extending the same privilege to others in his field.

She heard him pace as papers fluttered, occasionally addressing himself or someone only present in the confines of his tortured mind aloud. She wondered if that was where all of his friends resided. If they had ever existed in flesh, if they had found eternal rest in some blood-soaker field across the sea –and if so, if they could hear Hewlett in his bouts of frustration. The sentiment rose through the floorboards, through her soul, through the sky. At just after two o’clock on this clear fall morning, Caroline Herschel was certain even the most distant star knew that her brother’s apprentice was struggling with some calculation.

She imagined the heavens in the vague, philosophical sense as being deaf to his prayers and found herself longing for such divinity. Ideally, she would have spent the night scanning until the stars began to fade with the morning’s light but Caroline found she could not concentrate. She wondered if those with whom Hewlett conversed had the same problems, or if they had all long since retired to their slumbers as she was told good Christians did. Closing her catalogue, she rose from her perch. When she had been the lady of the house, which was to say, when she had enjoyed the responsibilities of residency, Caroline would have entered the workroom with designs on interruption and, after subjecting herself directly to words mispronounced and poorly woven by a heavy tongue, would gently remind the now-impoverished northern noble of the passage of time.

Things were different now.

Now, after watch had ended and the rest of the city had retired back to bed, Hewlett would offer to escort her ‘home’ when he saw her descending the ladder that connected the office and observatory. ‘Home’ was now a flat with a strong draft and a ceiling that always leaked without paying regard to whether or not there had been any precipitation that day. He would say things like ‘ _Es ist auf dem Weg_ ,’ and smile, not, Caroline had long since decided, at her, but at what he perceived as his own cleverness. Sometimes she would answer him in German which seemed to confuse him. Sometimes she would say that she spoke English, which caused him to lose his ability in that language and which compelled him for reasons she did not comprehend to fill sacred silence with senseless stutters. Mostly, Caroline would force herself to simply smile back, hoping her eyes did not narrow into a cold stare as she did. Mostly, Hewlett would cease speaking after offering her his arm and Caroline would think on the anomaly that was her ceiling, for it saved her form reflecting on the injustice of the lie he told her each and every night.

Edmund Hewlett had a key to her brother’s study, something she no longer possessed.

Caroline knew him to return there after dropping her off ‘on the way’ to his – if he even leased a flat in the same quarter. Or at all.

He was always there for breakfast though he never ate, once commenting that he had lost his taste for eggs during the war after she and her sister-in-law shared a look with one another which became public do to physical proximity after he had again given them the excuse that he did not wish to intrude on the family’s hospitality. Caroline had asked him to elaborate when they had found themselves alone in the office later that day – her compiling, him calculating – all that her brother might enjoy the celebrity of their dual efforts. She recalled that the question had caught him off guard. After an extended pause, he had told her that _‘it was all a rather messy business’_ by which he meant _‘I think of you as a child’_ ; to which she had responded _‘I was unaware that you had seen battle,’_ by which she meant exactly that.

Edmund Hewlett kept largely to himself. He had spent nearly a decade in the Americas and all he had to say for his experience was that he did not much care for eggs. She heard the rustle of papers in the workroom below the observatory. She heard him pace. She heard him hum. She had heard enough. The house was hers again for the night and it was pastime for her esteemed colleague to retire, regardless if he had actual lodgings of his own.

Climbing down into the workroom, she felt herself choke on the fat of candles that had been burring all night. Hewlett looked up briefly as she descended to offer a curt _‘Guten Abend’_ before returning his attention to an apple he slowly rotated on his desk, seemingly with great reflection.

“Nacht,” Caroline corrected, half-hoping he had a decent enough grasp of German to take her not-quite-subtle suggestion.

“What?” her colleague replied, not bothering to look at her.

“It is after two o’clock, Mr Hewlett,” she informed him flatly.

His face quickly twisted through the full range of human expression before settling on surprise as he stuttered, “Ah – I, you’ll forgive me, I -”

“I’ve always found it curious, that those in our profession, so consumed by the study of celestial objects have such a weak concept of time’s passage,” she commented.

“I don’t think it restricted to men of science,” he challenged.

“Men … in general then?”

Before Hewlett could respond, she asked, “Will you help me open a window? Wilhelm has tasked me to maintain his household in his absence and the scent does tend to linger.”

“Of course, I – I am sorry, I was … preoccupied. I had not noticed or thought on … For-forgive me,” Hewlett answered as he abandoned his desk to fulfil a simple task she could not manage on her own. Typhus had stunted Caroline’s growth at ten and left her blind in one eye. She was as embarrassed asking for Hewlett’s help as he was in offering it. He glanced down at her with something resembling pity after stretching to pry the panes apart. It was the same look he had afforded her when, upon returning from his first stint in the former colonies, he had commented to her brother that his daughter was growing into such a beautiful young lady in the heightened tones in which one spoke of small children and house pets. Wilhelm had corrected him gently. That was his sister. His daughter was an infant. Caroline had been less kind in her assessment of his observational skills.

 _‘Envy is ugly,’_ she had said pointing to scars time had left the corners of his eyes and mouth. He had responded with her exact phrase the first time she had ever asked for something just out of reach. In that moment, she had almost liked him. But she had then held the key he now possessed. They had not spoken on envy since it had taken a tangible from and Hewlett did not seem to understand humour outside of this single exchange. It was easily the ugliest thing about him.

“Schiller or Sir Isaac?” Caroline asked, receiving a sharp ‘ _what?_ ’ once more in return.

“The apple. Which of your heroes are you attempting to evoke for inspiration?”

“Ah,” Hewlett blinked. It took him a minute to process the double reference, if he did at all. “N-no. It’s Simcoe.”

“Simcoe?” she echoed. He repeated the name either to correct her pronunciation or to taste it again on his lips. Caroline imitated him, mindful of her inflection, raising her voice slightly on the second syllable as to imply the one-worded question of which Hewlett was so fond.

“I, he – that is, I was once his commanding officer towards the beginning of the American conflict. He has written to me and I - I suppose I rather am looking for ‘inspiration’ as you accuse me of,” he admitted. “It is almost ironic. Your question,” Hewlett shut his eyes and smiled at whatever reflection he found in the darkness. “Certain as I am that you will surely ridicule me for this, I once took politics as having the same properties of physics – reason and order. That is who I was when Simcoe knew me, as such I now am lost for a response,” he explained.  Caroline nodded. She had heard the name before but struggled for placement. Perhaps Hewlett tried channelling him now and again, using the variables he could not solve as a medium on nights like these. Her eyes darted to the desk, trying to glimpse his work. Hewlett noticed and pushed a stack of paperwork out of view. He lifted the fruit for display and spoke.

“The apple, however, is either a terribly poor muse at the moment or else I am unworthy of the inspiration it Schiller claims keeping one on his desk provides,” he said, sounding bitter. His gaze lowered and his face seemed to wrinkle more in the unflattering contrast multiple candles created between shadow and light that would complement most others. “Schreibtisch? Der Schreibtisch?” he attempted, frowning. Caroline affirmed this, herself questioning if he was capable of a congruent series of single thoughts and if this sorry muse that reminded her of a writer and him of a warrior might be at blame. He followed her eyes back to the palm of his hand.

“Ah - Little matter. Are you hungry?” he asked, taking a bite and tossing it to her. It conformed to the anecdotal explanation of gravity and fell to the floor with a thud. Hewlett did not seem to notice until she bent to pick it up.

His long fingers grazed hers where the met of the floor. Seemingly repelled by the sudden touch, he rose, taking the apple with him before bending again to offer her his hand. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean,” he started.

“It’s fine,” Caroline assured him, jesting as she shook and dirt and dust from her dress, “Maybe if either of us were naturally athletic we could have made a game of it.”

Hewlett shook his head. “I should likely be on my way. I –I’ll have the candles replaced. And the paper, of course,” he said, admitting quietly, “Try as I might I haven’t been able to focus on anything else for days.”

Caroline wondered if he was speaking to her, himself or some idea he carried of a man he once was or once knew. Edmund Hewlett kept largely to himself. She was beginning to suspect there was something more to it than an absence of character.

“May I see what you were working on?”

“If I had anything to show for my efforts.”

“What you are working with then? If it is maths or … I don’t know, music, I might prove a better muse than your snack.” Hewlett tried to protest, but Caroline found herself suddenly in possession of the ability to tune him out. She went over to the desk and unfolded Simcoe’s lengthy correspondence, which – as she noticed and commented - had been addressed to him at her brother’s residence rather than the home he claimed to have.

“He knows I work with your brother because of the paper I published on binary stars last year. He doesn’t know where I live … which is probably for the best.”

No one did. “Do you … have another address, Mr Hewlett?” Caroline tried.

“I take your point, Madame,” he said before shifting, instructing her in pleadingly tones that she would not be interested in what his old friend had to say. Caroline was of a different opinion and felt herself a better authority on the subject of her own mind then a man who thought of her very little and presumably thought very little of her.

“It is a limerick,” she puzzled as she flipped through pages and pages of strangely spaced verse, all complying with a certain repetitive rhythm and rhyme scheme that brought her to smile. “What exactly was your relationship with this … poet, or -”

“The Lt. Governor of Upper Canada,” Hewlett informed her. “He … was in the news a lot this past summer.”

“Oh.” That explained where her light familiarity must have been rooted. Although she wanted for more context, Hewlett permitted her little place to inquire. “And as to our relationship,” he spat, “it was largely defined by mutual distain, disrespect -”

“Is it safe to assume then you treated him with the regard we all enjoy? For he seems rather fond of you.”

Hewlett stopped. His world seemed to as well. “I … never meant you any offence, Miss Herschel,” he said quietly. “I had really out to take my leave, if I may.”

“Mr Hewlett, I assure you none was taken. I should, however, be able to find rest – even at this hour – with the questions you have risen in me,” she implored.

“You don’t wish to hear about my experiences during the war.”

“I beg to differ. You -” she falter briefly, dumbfounded by her on sense of ignorance. “You have essentially lived under this roof for what is fast approaching five years after a life of war and the only glimpse I have been given of your time in the colonies is that a provincial politician writes to you in verse and you have a certain aversion to eggs.”

“I didn’t realise you thought of me at all,” he said with a hint of sadness she had never before noticed.

“You have not given me much to consider.”

Hewlett pressed his thin lips together. His eyes darted between her and his desk before finally settling on a candle’s flame. They seemed to steal a bit of its light as he stared, lost in contemplation as was common, lost to himself as was constant. For a few seconds his dark eyes seemed as though they were concealing a soul rather than simply refracting the blackness of the nights in which he now lived.

“Shall I show you something?” he asked with some audible measure of hesitation.

“By all means.”

“Here,” Hewlett said, reaching back to retrieve a page from his unbound post she had stolen. He held it above the same flickering flame to an equitably illuminating effect. Words appeared in the vast space Simcoe had left, enjoining themselves to his attempts at poetry to form what she could reasonably discern was a different sort of composition altogether. “It is a refinement on invisible ink,” Hewlett told her. “I’m –admittedly not entirely certain how he did it, but the original process involves a sodium-carbonate solution which can be easily created -”

“Cabbage juice might work the same wonder for a considerably longer time,” she interrupted as she leaned over, trying to study the small writing the heat revealed.

Hewlett threw his head back and sighed. “Christ, your right. That makes so … ah! Bravo, John Graves. Bravo.” He looked at Caroline and explained his sudden cause for laughter. “Not that you accuse my humours of being out of alignment – during the war I was commissioned to a small garrison in a backwater called Setauket. The son of the magistrate who gave me quarter was a struggling cabbage farmer … and, more infamously, a rebel spy,” he said to her. “Leave it to John to reference the man in any communication between us,” he continued to himself.

“What?” Caroline asked, loud and unladylike.

“Simcoe he, shall we say suspected, or at the very least had certain misgivings regarding the young man from the beginning, though at that time I assumed it had more to do with um … desires they both harboured towards the same woman and was keen to ignore as such,” Hewlett tried to expand.

“You met a _spy_?” she asked again, still certain she had misheard.

Hewlett smiled in a way that evoked a deep regret she heard echo through his voice. “More than one, I fear. I – on multiple occasions, I helped facilitate their operations. Unknowingly, at first,” he frowned. “Eventually for profit once it became clear to me that the thirteen rebellious colonies were a lot cause. Order, Miss Herschel, cannot be created from chaos - which of course is no defence for my actions during the war – and little if any for Simcoe’s. But … I suppose it serves some explanation for current … method. A small reminder that I am continue to be part of the problem’s he finds himself facing.”

Once more, he seemed to converse more with himself or absent acquaintances than he did with those physically present. Perhaps, Caroline considered, it was not hers to fault him. Perhaps he found himself being called back to the former colonies, which, perhaps, he had never truly left.

“Is this blackmail?” she asked, taking the pages and scanning it against the back-glow with the same meticulous approach she employed in her astronomical studies. She felt a slight sense of solidarity with her malcontent colleague that threatened to transform her curiosity into concern. Hewlett did little to quell this fear.

“Not quite,” he answered. “He has asked for advice I am not certain I am presently equipped to provide. But this matter … you see, it involves individuals whom I feel something of an obligation towards though I struggle to find an answer to why within myself.” His frown lines deepened.

“The spies?” Caroline whispered.

“Ah, Their allies, as it were. You see, this really all began when I - acting in accordance with the law, mind - confiscated the property of a man named Selah Strong upon his imprisonment. It was such standard procedure … yet thinking back on it now I - I lost the war that afternoon. Sometime it seems the pen is in fact mightier than the swords, albeit in way one would never expect.”

It sounded both sorrowful and self-engrossed and she said as much. Hewlett nodded, not necessary because he agreed, or would have had he troubled himself to hear her blunt base assessment.

“Included in Mr Strong’s considerable estate were a number of slaves,” he continued. Hewlett explained that he had tried to implement Dunmore’s Proclamation in finding the forced-labourers assignments in various battalions as part of a then-proposed path to freedom. He had gifted one such former member of the Strong household to Major John André to serve him in the same capacity, separating a woman he knew only as Abigail from her young son who remained behind with the wife of their once-owner.

“Anna Strong,” he paused. The name, Caroline noted, seemed to linger though Hewlett seemed loathe to elaborate. She pressed. “Anna … that is, the woman whose husband I jailed and property I seized – um. I consider I may have also robbed her of any love for King and Country with that act –  assuming, of course, love had ever found refuge in her heart to begin with.”

“Were you … involved?” she extrapolated.

He declined to answer and looked back to the correspondence she continued to study, handing her the following page.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Its fine. Its finished,” he interrupted in a tone that contradicted his words. Swallowing half a sentence and perhaps the whole of his pride, he expanded, “Before Abigail left for her new employment the two women devised a sort of arrangement – Abigail passed information to Mrs Strong from Major André’s offices by way of post … post which I hand delivered. Parcels, small gifts to her son. Things like that. There were coded messages hidden inside all the while. I had never considered the possibility that she could read. But how could I? Most freeborn servants here in Britain are illiterate, and Setauket, from my taking, was hardly the Athens of America. Or perhaps I am just naturally given to underestimating the abilities of others. It certainly would not be for the first time. I misjudged the motives of her former mistress as well.”

Caroline considered the enthusiasm that Edmund Hewlett reserved for astronomy had once defined his overall approach to life. Empathy escaped her. She had her own experiences had been a series of constants that disallowed for sentiment. Since childhood, she had managed to marginally emancipate herself from expectations by outshining those who had designed to enslave her as a means to their ends. She had a comet named for her as well as a crater on the moon. The only thing bearing Hewlett’s name was his living corpse. His constants were restricted to scientific curiosity. Caroline Herschel could not decide if she should approach him with pity or envy. She had never known heartbreak in the same sense, but then she had never known love. She was far too cunning and clever and not nearly charming or pretty enough to allow any man to overlook these detriments.

Men, she had always reasoned, had no need of concealing such brilliance should it happened to manifest, as it certainly did in her colleague. Still, Edmund Hewlett kept largely to himself. Perhaps he had given all that he had been worth to the former mistress of a fellow mind born to misfortune.

She was saddened to think that he could have been happy, but instead he was here. With her. And the words of Lt. Governor Simcoe and the memories they evoked. She wondered what became of the rest of them – of Anna, Abigail, and of the men who were giving the governor such grievance. She squinted to read, blinking a tear from her eye she had not known to have been there.

“I’ve upset you,” Hewlett observed without inflection.

“It is just exhaustion,” she said.

“I should – I did not mean to overstay my welcome, I should -”

“Continue. You should continue. You know what they say about me, Mr Hewlett. I have no heart, not one that you could break” she smirked. “I do however have a deeply inquisitive mind you may yet hope to lay to rest.”

“I did not know you found me interesting,” he nearly laughed. He pulled a stool back to the desk, offering it to her as he moved a candle closer to make her self-appointed task of skimming a coded message easier, or, at the very least, more comfortable.

“I don’t,” Caroline said in lieu of thanks.

“Hm?”

“Find you interesting, Mr Hewlett. Abigail, Anna Strong, Major André, Simcoe, this mysterious cabbage man … and um, Akinbode, Cicero – they intrigue me. Please, be so kind as to continue,” she encouraged. Hewlett complied with grace.

“Abigail served the Continental forces from within John André’s employ until such time as he requested that her son –that is, the Cicero whom Simcoe mentions here- join his household upon his return to New York from Philadelphia where he had been stationed for a time. Afterwards Abigail and Mrs Strong must have devised a more direct form of communication. You see I …” he trailed off.

“What?”

He buried his eyes in the palm of his hand. “I quite nearly wed her, Mrs Strong, believing in my arrogance and wilful ignorance that the esteem I came to hold her in was shared. This … all being before I realized or, rather, she confessed to me that she had been acting as a rebel spy throughout our odd courtship.”

“Mr Hewlett I – I feel I might have overstepped.”

“No, no, I volunteered it. Though … I rather suppose it has little to do with your inquiry.”

“Maybe … you just need to say it,” she suggested. “To anyone.”

“It has certainly been long enough, hasn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“If I may dare, you are lovelier then you realise, Miss Herschel.”

“It may surprise you that I have heard that joke before; you’ll excuse me when I don’t laugh.”

“Fine,” he smiled. “Luckier then?”

“That I will believe,” she winked. She waited. Hewlett seemed conflicted over how to continue, if he ever should. It was possible that his own personal narrative, insofar as he viewed himself as having had one, had ended on his would-be wedding day.

“As to the fate of Mrs Strong,” he said more controlled and less conceited than she had considered his voice capable within the given context. “After abandoning me at the alter with the accusation that I forced her to forge a divorce agreement that we might enter into a most unholy union together, she wrote to me – um, this was … months later. After I had since left my post in Setauket. I agreed to meet her in hopes of finding closure, and once again facilitated her attempts at espionage by providing her paperwork for passage into the city.” He paused. His eyes shut and Caroline imagined him as seeing this all unfold again before him. She wondered if Simcoe knew, if Anna was referenced in any of the twelve pages he had sent or if she existed for alone for the former Major. She did not ask. Knowing would bring her nothing and may serve to break him.

“She identified herself as a spy in a tavern full of my fellow British officers. My fate was, of course, too tied up with their ring at that point to take any direct or immediate action. Regardless if she realised this or not … it was rather brave. She always was. I digress – our last meeting was short, and of no real consequence to the narrative I otherwise mean to relay – save to say that Mrs Strong used her time in York City to meet with this slave turned spy once more, who divulged to her that André had turned Benedict Arnold to the British cause.

“Abigail and her son Cicero attached themselves to Arnold’s household after André’s capture and conviction. At least, she was serving in the same capacity when I returned to the colonies to replace my former superior as the Head of Intelligence. It … was not worth it to pursue any course of action against her. The cabbage farmer - the other spy I knew from Setauket - had managed to wrangle his way into Arnold’s short-lived regiment. Before I could make a decision regarding his fate, my own intervened in the form of John Graves Simcoe, who – yet again, I might add – was conspiring toward my demise. I abandoned this scheme I had put in place of selling falsified information about the war effort -” Hewlett stopped, seeing her look of dismay. Caroline let the letter fall with her jaw. “I’ll admit I am not proud of the man desperation made me into -”he began to defend.

“He tried to kill you, this Simcoe?” she gasped when she found she could speak.

“Multiple times. As I told you … the animosity was mutual and … as the war concluded and my finances were assured, I became consumed with thoughts of vengeance.”

Hewlett took another bite of the apple which had begun to brown. “While under my direct command, Simcoe killed my horse with a poisoned apple. I found him on his deathbed shortly before the surrender at Yorktown and … in a rather dramatic display, even for myself, reminded him of this particular act of cruelty before telling him to take a bite of the one I then forced into his mouth, implying that to do so invited death. To his horror, I then took the same action, explaining that I was not ending our cycle of violence but rather continuing its natural rotation.” He twisted the apple slowly in his hand, glancing between it and the stack of paper.

“It seems to have left quite an impression. I don’t – I don’t know if you much follow the news from the New World, but Simcoe has since become something of Lord Dunmore’s unlikely successor. He has written to me in detail -as you have seen - about his plans to end slavery within his province … and over the opposition he faces in doing so. One of the last actions I took while I was in the armed services was to direct Abigail to a ship set for Nova Scotia when she came to implore my assistance in helping her to return her to her son, who had since attached himself to Arnold directly – possibly in the capacity of a continental spy. She had planned to meet him and …”

“Akinbode?”

“Yes … ah, for context, a deserter from Simcoe’s regiment, another former slave of Selah Strong over the border. From this letter, the one Simcoe sent me … it does not sound as though she made it, which is of some private concern. Some … public concern as well, in a roundabout way.”

“I’d say,” Caroline commented.

Relations with the south had become strained by the Lt. Governor’s proposal, as he himself had taken pains to explain, with opposition groups on both sides of the border vocalizing their fears that a situation the bill would create – depending on residence – a runaway or refugee problem neither economy could handle. Tensions heightened as trade relations strained, adding to the fiscal downturn that naturally followed post-war prosperity. Simcoe had maintained throughout and without regard to material problems and market swings, that slavery was an abomination - as he stated several times, he was certain Hewlett would agree.

The story had largely fallen out of public interest in England and thus, out of the news cycle, the Lt. Governor continued in his attempts to call his constituents and colleagues to what he saw as the right side of history with considerable success. Although he confessed to not being a man of politics, he maintained that while it had been years since he had seen battle, he was still a warrior capable of withstanding any sort of campaign; that was, until he had met his match in the form of a line item on a recent census that corresponded to the taxation records.

“Akinbode, the Ranger who deserted from his own regiment, has been living in Canada on coin … or Simcoe infers from his own involvement in the unfortunate incident … which was stolen from the crown during a prisoner exchange turned massacre. It is a prime example opposition from all sides could point to in citing why his proposal must not be allowed to pass legislation. To complicate matters, Akinbode processes his own deed of manumission, signed by Simcoe. Cicero – that is, Abigail’s son - does not seem to have any such papers, and thus, according to the United States government, is still property of Selah Strong.”

“It is only Simcoe’s office who knows about this, unless I misunderstand.”

“Three week ago, sure. But these things always have a way of coming out and it seems the former Ranger has become quite the entrepreneur, providing for … not an entirely negligible share of the local economy. Simcoe’s political enemies will discover this story eventually if they have not already. He thinks that prosecuting now, as a means of quelling fears of taking in runaways en masse, would hurt agriculture enough in the short term that he would lose all of the support he could otherwise hope to gain. If he fails to go public with this discovery, however, he would lose any vote of confidence. It is a messy situation. One I am certain I don’t have the solution to.”

“I am less sure. You are a brilliant man, Mr Hewlett,” Caroline thought aloud, not intending to compliment her colleague on something of which he was already more than well aware.

“I get by,” he bashfully contradicted. She shook her head, again in disbelief, albeit in this particular incident from his confirming her suspicions rather than shattering them.

“I think what Simcoe really seems to be asking – based on what you have told me about who you once were, your former relationships and what I have managed to read – is not _what_ he should do but _how_ he should go about doing it. People like the Lt. Governor aren’t generally given to asking for advice until they have already made up their mind – from my understanding, which, granted, it limited to this room.”

“No, it – it is valid. You seem to have a hold on him. Better than I did, initially, at any rate.”

“The real question is,” Caroline declared, pressing the bundle of pages blank but for poems back into his hands, “is it easier to find jurisprudence or moral justification for the actins one intends?”

Hewlett nodded and thanked her for her input. Caroline thanked him for his company and conversation and asked if he required lodging for the night that remained.

“I … I realise it is quite late, but at the risk of making more of a burden of myself, I would like to – with your permission of course – conclude this … correspondence. The way you rephrased that question, it rather reminds me of the man I was, or rather thought myself to be when Simcoe and I first made one another’s acquaintance. I know at least what he would do … and would say, and how it might be best employed here.”

“What is that exactly,” she asked, dreary but genuinely interested.

“In words – law, order, authority. In deed,” he sighed, “citing scripture and feigning sympathy whilst working towards my own agenda. Essentially … almost ironically, what I am prepared to do now on this would-be-family’s behalf and what I should think – should hope him willing to do as well.”

“Specifically?”

When Hewlett spoke, he seemed alive in the way he usually reserved for her brother or his students. “He needs to announce to the public that the recent census has turned over evidence that the fears named by his opposition may have some warrant to them,” he explained. “By means of this, he need to issue a proclamation of leniency … um, a ruse, you see, no one familiar with John Graves Simcoe would ever confuse him for the sort of man who might understand the meaning of that word.”

Caroline nodded her comprehension.

“No one, or, perhaps … very few would come forward, giving him proper grounds to organize a raid,” he continued. “Simcoe then needs to put someone else, someone who is not Akinbode, someone who is not guilty through a mock trial to appease his critics. Then, naturally, release him in accordance with common law.”

“And Akinbode and Cicero?”

“Ought to be able to enjoy the rights Simcoe seeks to give them. I … confess that I am curious if Akinbode might be able or willing to explain the absence of the woman he did this all for from Simcoe’s narrative. I am certain it was not simply an oversight and I feel … I feel I might be responsible in some way. In the end, we were both in the same dirty business, she and I, something I unknowingly forced upon her, something I tried to set right. Ah, to answer the original question as you restated it in the most direct way I can … ethics are unchanging. We all strive towards right as children of God and followers of Christ. Everything to help us get there can be forged or otherwise falsified should it not be found.”

“The ends justify the means?” she contracted.

“Or so I have heard it said.”

“Mr Hewlett … dare I say, I think you might well be in the wrong field.” Caroline was uncertain if she had meant it as a compliment, but the way Hewlett smiled, he seemed to take it as such.

“Quite the contrary, my dear. I think I was for a long time. The army was never my calling.”

“Politics?”

“It is all frenzied and fleeting. The only constant I found is in the heavens themselves, and that – I am beginning to discover, is only due to our own limited understanding. But in so long as I am here on this earth, I can help in that respect to some degree,” he blushed, “or, so I should hope.”

“I’m certain,” she yawned, “that you already have. Not that you mistake my lethargy for boredom, but -”

„Guten Nacht, Frauline Herschel.“

„Morgen … es ist jetzt morgen,“ she laughed. „Und wir können uns ja schon endlich duzen, oder?“

True to form, he puzzled over this before asking, “What?” this time with a softer inflection, either from fatigue or relief at finally figuring out how to discuss his experiences and the problems that manifested from them which he now took as his to solve.

“It is morning … and if it is all the same to you, we might address one another by given name. I’m Caroline.”

“Edmund,” he nearly grinned. “And … guten morgen? Or I suppose as you say in Hanover, moin moin.”

“Never twice. Not in Hannover, and moin doesn’t mean,” she shook her head. “Your efforts are not entirely unappreciated.”

“That is … a relief honestly,” Edmund said, “I know I need some work but I – I am trying to be friendly.”

She guessed it did not come easily to him and found in that thought her ever-evasive empathy. “Just be yourself. And lock up when you are done.”

“I – I shall.”

“I will see you later this afternoon?” she asked, almost hopeful.

“I am at your service, Madame.”

“Caroline.”

“Caroline … ah … gruß-sch-ruse?”

It took her a moment to understand what he meant.

“That is … not German. Auf Wiedersehen, Edmund. Good luck with drafting your return correspondence.”

“I’ll let you know when and if he responds.”

**Author's Note:**

> There are countless jokes about Türkdeutsch (that is, German as it is spoken by the Turkish minority) so I could not resist to make a joke there at the very end about German-esque pronunciation of Turkish words that literally no one reading will get and is therefore … _not funny!_ I know, I should stick to cringe-worthy puns. But to explain, Görüşürüz (spoken here as gruß-sch-ruse) means ‘see you,’ as does auf Wiedersehen. Situationally, you will hear both in Hannover.
> 
> Moin is a greeting in the north. _Moin Moin!_ is something printed on souvenirs. Most conversations between locals (of the true north!) are some variation of “Moin. Na?” and “Geht’s.” There are infinite interpretations for this exchange. In context, it might even be two astronomers talking about the war experiences of one. XP
> 
> I know TURN cast her as an impossibly tall beauty with typical Skandi-features, but Caroline Herschel was stunted due to Typhus, which is how I have chosen to present her here.
> 
> As always, Comments and Kudos are greatly cherished, as are you, beautiful readers. That reminds me that I have a lot of reading of my own to indulge in before we meet again. <3
> 
> Up Next: John Graves refuses to be a coe-rrupt politician. At least that is what he tells his wife.  
> MfG


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